


Ozone and Tobacco

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Awkwardness, Banter, Bodily Functions, Character Death, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Death, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Ghost Powers, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Loneliness, M/M, Paranormal, Possession, Purgatory, Sharing a Body, Telekinesis, rated for eventual gay ghost sexytimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Endeavour Morse comes to work with the police in Oxford shortly after his intended boss, Fred Thursday, collapses in his office, dead. Shortly after Morse arrives, he realizes the man is not entirely gone, when the ghost of the inspector makes himself known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Paranormal AUs are all the rage today, and I'm jumping on the bandwagon, even though I am super busy with school. There's no update schedule for this - I'll do it when I can. I'm literally drowning in term paper preparations right now. So yeah. This is absurd and ridiculous, but ghosts are kind of rad? I dunno. I'm trash.
> 
> (I feel so bad for killing off Thursday even though he's come back as a ghost. I love him too much for the angst that will inevitably happen in this fic.)
> 
> Ignore the OC Hamilton-Warrens. He serves literally no purpose beyond that which he does in this chapter.
> 
> Also forgive any blatant errors (but feel free to inform me of them). I'm writing this while sick, exhausted, and without having seen Endeavour in ages, so if I fuck this up, I am sorry in advance.
> 
> Also I have no idea if I can write ghosts. Let's find out.

* * *

Fred Thursday’s reputation lingered round his office, like the smell of his tobacco, and the faintest smell of ozone – sharp and crisp like the air before a rainstorm. Of course, part of the reason it hung around so was because no one had the heart to clean the room out. His replacement would be there soon enough – too soon. It felt wrong, going in and tampering beforehand, so they left the place locked and silent, like a tomb.

When Morse arrived, there were still grave looks on the faces of his coworkers, and redness in the eyes of a few of the younger lads. He’d heard murmurings of course – that the detective inspector had passed away unexpectedly – that he’d been well-loved by his family and his peers – but it was not until he asked DeBryn that he got a straight answer.

It had been a heart attack. Quick, and unexpected. By all accounts, the man had just collapsed at his desk.

Until the replacement arrived, everyone had to make do, and manage as best they could. The room stayed locked, the work got done, and, thankfully, there were blissfully few cases before the transfer came.

Hamilton-Warrens, mid-fifties, colourless, humourless, bland. He was mundane, by-the-book, and totally forgettable, but that proved ideal – this man could be no stand-in for Thursday, not in the hearts of those who knew him. Sure enough, with a new captain to steer the ship, the eyes dried, the smiles and jokes returned, and people turned their attention away from the past. Morse was called in a last to meet and discuss his future with the new detective inspector, who apologized for the chaos and soon had things in order.

Really, given the circumstances, everything was handled seamlessly. Hamilton-Warrens was, if nothing else, efficient. The only thing that struck Morse as strange, at the time, was that smell. Ozone and tobacco.

It didn’t dissipate.

If anything, when Hamilton-Warrens moved in his personal items, and cleared all out but the desk, which he tidied and rearranged, it grew stronger, which made no sense at all. Stranger still, when Morse happened to mention it, he only got odd looks in response. But then, he always had been sensitive to smells, compared to most people.

Weeks passed, and he too, forgot about it.

It all changed on a rainy Friday night, much like any other in that Morse stayed behind, after his coworkers left, pouring over evidence at his desk, alone. With the office deserted, it was quiet, like a church or a library, save for the sound of the rain against the windows. It was peaceful, and still.

Absorbed as he was in his work, the young man startled when a glance at his wristwatch revealed it was nearly half-nine. His stomach gave a pained growl and he rubbed his eyes and yawned, blinking away sleep.

Something appeared in his peripheral vision, and suddenly, Morse wasn’t alone. Had someone come to get him, to tell him to call it a night? There was night staff about… perhaps someone felt sorry for him, working when he ought to be out on the town, chasing girls.

He turned to look, and his mouth fell open in shock.

Someone was in Hamilton-Warren’s office.

Slowly, Morse rose to his feet, and, as if of their own volition, they began to move him in the direction of the door. He eased it open a crack, movements sluggish and strange, like in a dream.

It was like seeing someone through fog or smoke. He was there, but at any given moment, parts of him would flicker and shift, fading at the edges. When he moved, it was as though he were being played on a bit of old film that skipped the occasional frame. As he lifted his pipe to his lips and paced the office, he moved jerkily. The scene was ephemeral – Morse was suddenly hyper-aware of the silence, the absence of the sounds a normal man would make – no footfalls, no _breathing_. The man reflected light oddly, made the dust that hung in the air before him – inside him – glimmer like a thousand tiny shards of glass.

The smell of ozone and tobacco was almost unbearable now, and it was all Morse could do not to cough.

The man flickered again, more violently, all but vanishing for a moment, and Morse’s stomach clenched, simultaneously hoping and fearing that he’d fade away entirely. A theory developed in Morse’s mind – tongue clumsy, lips numb, he chanced it.

“Detective Inspector?”

The moment Morse spoke, he wished he hadn’t. Terror turned him cold as the man turned to look at him.

The eyes… they surprised him. They were bewildered, non-threatening, and they glowed a bit in the darkened room, but they were disarmingly human.

“Hullo. Who are you, then?”

It took Morse a moment to speak. The man’s voice was indiscernible from that of a living person.

“M-Morse. I’m Morse.”

“Fred Thursday. When did you arrive, lad? I must’ve missed you…”

He trailed off, confusion plain on his features. He flickered again.

“It’s… it’s my fault, sir,” Morse bluffed. “I’ve been very busy – I haven’t had a chance to speak to you, what with Bright and DeBryn and all the other introductions.”

At the mention of his colleagues, Thursday nodded and chuckled.

“Settling in is always a bit of an ordeal, and I tell you – things have been very odd lately.”

He paced to the far wall with all the grace of a wind-up toy, and frowned at a picture that now hung there.

“They’ve rearranged my office,” he said, and shook his head. “Why in the name of – don’t suppose you know anything about that, eh Morse?”

It was all Morse could do to shakily respond. Could it be the inspector didn’t know he was…?

“Perhaps a prank, sir?”

The frown remained, but Thursday seemed to mellow in his confusion.

“Seems a great deal of effort to do all this just to get a rise out of me.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir,” Morse ventured, “I was just going home for the night. May I-?”

Thursday looked up from the calendar he was studying, sitting on Harrison-Warren’s desk, visibly distracted and perturbed. He offered Morse a good-natured nod.

“Right. Go on, then. Goodnight.”

Morse nodded and backed out of the door as calmly as he could. He walked to his desk and gathered his things, heart pounding in his chest. Once he was in the hallway, out of sight, he broke into a desperate run.

His pulse didn’t slow until he was back in his flat with the door shut and bolted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this super small chapter will hopefully be followed by a much bigger one. sorry this is so small.

* * *

What was the appropriate response to meeting a ghost unaware of its own death? The question troubled Morse until the early hours of the morning. It seemed unethical to keep the secret from him. It seemed cruel to tell him. Morse held onto a faint hope that perhaps he had just imagined the whole thing. It could’ve happened. It was feasible that he was exhausted – that settling in and working too hard had left him drained.

He recalled the confusion in Thursday’s face. The poor man had no idea about his circumstance. It was a shame – he seemed reasonable, even kind. Now he was… what, bound to hover around his office forever? No matter how much he enjoyed his job, to be stuck there for eternity seemed particularly awful.

 _Don’t,_ Morse thought reproachfully. _There’s no good investing oneself in what was, surely, nothing more than a bit of delirium. Forget it._

It took Morse a week, but he managed to do it – nearly. He still recalled the event, but could see the absurdity of it. It no longer frightened him, because he no longer believed – or rather, insisted that he no longer believed – that any of it had been true.

Work had been mundane but bearable. The memory of the Thursday encounter was fading by the day, and the most exciting thing to happen all week was that Jakes’s cup of coffee shattered unexpectedly, forcing him to go around all day with a stain on his shirt. Morse decided he was being silly, still thinking of the not-ghost at all, and he decided that he’d spent enough time dallying, and would risk overtime again.

It was quarter past four when Morse left his desk for a quick jaunt to answer a call of nature. Once finished, he looked at himself in the mirror, checking that his tie was straight as he washed his hands, and nearly jumped out of his skin.

Thursday was standing beside him.

His head whipped ‘round sideways, but there was nothing there. He looked back in the mirror. Thursday looked perplexed, but not as befuddled as before. His brow creased, and he opened his mouth as if to speak. The door suddenly opened as another fellow came in. Morse jumped again, prompting the man to apologize for startling him. He stammered out a platitude and eyed the mirror a final time. Thursday had disappeared.

Sitting back at his desk, Morse tried to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. He was less horror-struck than the last time, but that hardly made him comfortable with his circumstances. _What do I **do?**_ he wondered. And why was Thursday appearing to him? No one else seemed to see the apparition, no one had mentioned anything strange. _I didn’t even know him._ Perhaps that was it, Morse realized. Perhaps impartial eyes were needed. Maybe Thursday couldn’t appear to people he knew too well.

It was an absurd thought, but no less absurd than the rest of the situation. It niggled at him, the more he dwelt on it. If he was truly the only one who could bring the dead man some peace, then he was ethically bound to do… something. He didn’t like the idea of inviting more supernatural phenomena into his life, but he could hardly condemn someone to an eternity in limbo.

Resignation settled over him like a shroud, and Morse vowed to take the next available opportunity to investigate further. He only hoped the answer would be found in an easily accessible book. He had, after all, a job already – he did not need a research position as well.

“I will help you, Fred Thursday,” he whispered to himself. Jakes looked over.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just talking to myself.”

 _Brilliant answer, that._ Jakes snorted, but did not question it, considering it another of Morse’s long list of peculiarities. For once, Morse was glad of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ghosts are weird tbh

* * *

Ghosts.

Virtually every culture had some idea of them – some concept of blurring the boundary between life and death. Morse spent his spare time pouring over every book he could find about them. He read a translation of ancient Egyptian funereal texts, he re-read classical Greek plays and Shakespeare’s _Hamlet_. He took detailed notes on a series of anthropological essays on Indigenous death rituals. He even struggled through a rather eccentric (and objectively lacking) memoir of a woman who claimed to have met various historical figures through the practice of séances.

At the end of the day, he could not find a straight-forward answer of what to do, in his specific situation.

In the end, it did not matter, for Thursday appeared to him again before he had decided on a course of action.

Morse had not prepared for this, exactly, but he also was not as startled as before, when, on another evening when he worked late, he felt his skin prickle and the room grow cold.

He took a breath to steady himself, and slowly set his pen aside, folding his hands on his desk. He looked up, and found Fred Thursday standing before him, arms crossed over his chest.

“Good evening, sir,” Morse said with more confidence than he actually felt. “Working late, are you?”

“You can dispense with all that for a start,” the older man said flatly.

“Sir?”

“I’ve figured it out.”

He sighed, flickering out of view for a moment. It was a weary, heavy sound.

“How long ago did I…?”

Thursday fell silent, the question caught in his throat.

“Just over three months,” Morse replied. Thursday had visibly steeled himself for the answer, but it still seemed to knock the strength out of him.

“And… I suppose I had my… my funeral.”

Morse nodded again.

“Was there a good turn out?” Thursday asked, attempting a laugh.

“I wasn’t there myself, sir, but by all accounts, yes.”

The ghost hesitated, unwilling to continue the conversation, but clearly wanting to ask something.

“And my… my family – they’re being looked after?”

He had a look of such earnest worry on his face that Morse looked away – he could read too much of the man in that expression, and wanted to award him some modicum of privacy.

“I believe so, sir.”

Thursday sighed again but he did seem more visibly at ease.

“Well, that’s good news, at least. Hopefully they’re comfortable. It’s not exactly a road to riches, this job, but I tried to set aside enough that they could manage, in the event that I… well.”

He shook his head in disbelief.

“Never thought I’d go out this way. In the line of duty, maybe, or at home, like my old man. Was it a heart attack, then?”

Morse faltered, caught off-guard.

“You don’t know?” he blurted out. Thursday furrowed his brow.

“It’s not exactly easy to recall,” he defended. “One minute I’m at my desk and the next I’m… floating about.”

He waved his hand vaguely.

“Three months, you said – and I’ve only just confirmed I’m actually dead!”

He flinched as he said the word, and paused to collect himself.

“I am sorry I keep turning to you with all this. Everyone else keeps ignoring I’m here.”

Morse frowned.

“I'm under the impression they can’t actually see you,” he admitted. “They don’t seem to. None of them.”

Thursday raised his eyebrows.

“Then why can you?”

The younger man shrugged.

“I have no idea. I’ve been doing some reading, but so far I’ve not turned up a definite answer.”

The ghost paused, and then suddenly laughed. It was a surprisingly warm, genuine sound.

“You’ve been conducting research, have you?”

Morse blushed and looked away, feeling unreasonably foolish.

“I was just trying to help,” he muttered.

“Oh, don’t be like that – I’m touched, truly.”

The older man laid what was meant to be a reassuring hand on Morse’s shoulder, only to have the grip sink through him. They both recoiled alarmed.

“I didn’t mean to –”

“I’m sorry –”

Morse rubbed his shoulder. Even through his clothes he’d felt the ungodly chill that passed through him. It was as though all the warmth had been sucked out of him in that spot. He shuddered.

Thursday looked miserable.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he reiterated. “I’ve been trying – to touch things – but I can’t seem to…”

He flickered again. His form seemed to fade into a wispy vapour the more upset he was.

“Maybe I can help,” Morse interjected. “I mean… we could practice. And I can do some more reading.”

“Why?” was all Thursday could say.

“It seems wrong not to.”

 _And you’ve suffered enough,_ he added mentally. Thursday nodded slowly.

“Right. How would we…?”

“Maybe… maybe after work you could just… appear. And we’ll try... moving things – not with anything breakable.”

“And… will that work? Will it help?”

Morse had no idea.

“It can’t hurt, I don’t think. If I find evidence to the contrary in my research, I’ll let you know, of course. Only… if it were me, I think I’d appreciate the certainty of a plan.”

The ghost agreed. He flickered again. The clock struck nine.

“I suppose I’d best let you go, then, if you really plan to keep up with all that reading.”

Morse nodded and rose from his desk, collecting his things. Thursday made to shake his hand, and they both paused, simultaneously realizing that was impossible.

“Right. I’ll be going, then.”

Thursday nodded and vanished. Morse flinched. The conversation had been lively enough – _living_ enough – that he’d forgotten, on some level, that he’d been speaking with something that _should not exist._

And where was he now? When he was invisible, did he _leave?_ Or was he just… lurking about?

Morse shook his head, stuffing his arms into his coat and heading out the door.

He had more questions than ever, now, and not an answer in sight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friendly banter with your dead boss is totally normal, right?

* * *

“Almost – you’ve nearly got it – just a bit more-!”

“Damn!”

The comb shot across the room and disappeared under a desk, the sound of plastic skittering along the floor sounding incredibly loud in the near-empty room. Thursday sighed heavily and shook his head.

“It’s no use.”

Morse pursed his lips.

“Maybe something else… here. Here’s a matchbook.”

“I can see that,” Thursday snapped, irritability audible in his words. They had been trying to move objects together for close to two hours, with no success. Both man and ghost were short-tempered, with frayed nerves.

“Just, try lighting one.”

Morse held one out.

“Go on.”

“How can I light it? I can’t even lift the ruddy –”

“Don’t try to light it by striking it. Just… imagine it being lit.”

Thursday raised an eyebrow.

“Read that in one of your books, did you?”

The young man shrugged, sheepish.

“Well, it can’t hurt,” he argued, coming off a bit petulant.

Thursday sighed again and stared at the match.

“It’s not –” he began, but Morse shushed him.

“Try harder.”

A pause, longer this time. Morse held his breath. The tension grew in the air until suddenly and without warning, the match ignited.

Both Thursday and Morse jumped at the sudden crackle, before bursting out into startled, giddy laughter.

“I can’t believe it!” Morse breathed. “I didn’t think it’d work!”

“O ye of little faith,” Thursday chuckled, waggling a finger at him. “I’m full of surprises, me.”

As if to prove his point, the deceased detective furrowed his brow and focused his attention on the fountain pen on Morse’s desk. It began to roll – slowly at first, but gaining momentum – until it bumped up against the young man’s arm.

The breakthrough was encouraging. In the next twenty minutes, Thursday proved able to take the cap off the fountain pen, retrieve the fallen comb from earlier, and, with some difficulty, manage to shakily sign his name on a scrap of paper.

“Best keep that one a secret,” he joked, eyes twinkling. “People could have me signing all sorts, posthumously.”

“Well, _I_ won’t tell, sir,” Morse quipped in reply.

It was strange, enjoying the company of a dead man, talking casually of the fact, as though it were commonplace and not an offense against God and the natural order of things. Morse felt a pang of wistfulness when he realized that he felt as comfortable around the ghost as he ever hoped to around new acquaintances. He’d have been a nice man to work under, and it hurt to think that he’d missed the opportunity so narrowly.

Some of this realization must’ve shown in his eyes, because the merriment vanished from Thursday’s face and he frowned, concerned.

“What’s wrong, lad?”

Morse searched for the words.

“I… feel strange. About this.”

Thursday snorted.

“I hardly think you’re alone in that.”

“Oh no, I know – I only meant… well, I don’t dislike your company. I’d have enjoyed it even more in life, I don’t doubt. Not to speak ill of your replacement but the man lacks a certain…”

“A certain…?”

“Forgive the expression, sir, but a certain vitality.”

The older male managed a neutral expression for all of ten seconds before it crumbled and he began to laugh.

“I suppose it’d be in poor taste for me to complement you on your _deadpan,_ then.”

It was Morse’s turn to lose his composure. The laughter resumed, and then trailed off with a groan.

“I’ve got one hell of a headache, all of a sudden,” Thursday observed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They don’t tell you that about being dead.”

“Too much focusing?” Morse suggested. “On the objects?”

Thursday nodded with a grimace.

“I think that’s all I can manage tonight. And blimey, look at the time! You ought to be getting home, at any rate.”

Morse was less startled this time when the detective simply vanished into nothingness, but it still jarred him. He looked around for evidence of the spirit’s presence, but none could be seen.

“Well, goodnight,” he said to the empty air, feeling foolish. He shrugged on his jacket, and was just turning off the lights when a flurry of movement caught his eye. His scarf, forgotten on the coat-rack, was flapping at him in a parody of a wave.

He shook his head in disbelief, and grinned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol these dorks... ghost shenanigans

* * *

“– oh, and Morse – I’d like those files on my desk by the end of the day.”

The habitual ‘yes sir’ was unnecessary – even as Morse felt his lips moving, DI Hamilton-Warrens was halfway across the room talking to somebody else. It wasn’t the man’s fault – he had been thrust rather inelegantly into his position, after all. Still, Morse couldn’t help but think that it would’ve been nice to have the kind of working relationship he would’ve had with Fred Thursday.

He reached for his pen without looking up from his work only to knock it off the desk by accident. When he moved to retrieve it, he felt it press into his palm, seemingly by itself.

He froze for a moment, eyes darting around the room in alarm. He wasn’t sure what exactly he feared, but the idea of anyone finding out about the haunting sent a jolt of dread through him. Fortunately, a cursory glance showed that nothing was out of the ordinary, that no one had seen. Heartbeat slowing, the young man gripped the pen in slightly shaking fingers and went back to his work.

“You can’t do that!” the young man hissed as soon as the last of his coworkers had gone, cracking wise about how hungry Morse was for a promotion. _Overtime, every night this week._

Thursday popped into being, looking bewildered.

“What do you –”

“Toying with me at work… what’ll you think they’ll do if they see me talking to you, responding to something you do? They’ll think I’m mad – this could cost us both.”

The older male frowned.

“They won’t fire you,” he said, but sounded doubtful. Morse ran a hand over his face.

“They’d send me on mandatory leave,” he mumbled into his palm. “At _best._ Who will talk to you then?”

Thursday went quiet for a long time. Morse hung his head, shut his eyes.

Something brushed his shoulder, like a cool breeze but weightier. Tangible. Morse winced, eyes open in a flash, darting to where Thursday’s hand was hovering next to his arm.

“I’m sorry,” the ghost rumbled. “I didn’t think –”

“I can feel that!” Morse blurted out. Thursday nodded.

“I’ve been practicing,” he said, a note of pride in his voice. Then, more somberly, “I am sorry, lad. It was only a bit of fun. I don’t want to jeopardize your career. Just… gets a bit tiresome, floating about on my own.”

Morse nodded, frowning.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you… what do you… do? When I’m not here to see you, that is. Do you stay on, invisible, or go someplace else?”

Thursday flickered like old film, jerkily rubbing his chin. The image skipped and repeated a few times as he thought.

“It’s hard to explain,” he said. “It’s rather like watching the telly when the signal’s coming in wrong. I can see the lot of you, getting up to your daily business, but it’s broken up… like stopping the dial between two radio programmes. You get bits of both. I get bits of this…”

“Plane?” Morse suggested.

“… yeah, right. I get a bit of that and a bit of the other.”

Morse’s eyes widened with curiosity.

“The other? You mean… Heaven?”

“Dunno if you can call it that,” Thursday shrugged. “It certainly isn’t hell. Seems to me more like Purgatory, I suppose. Just lots of dark shapes I can’t quite see – faint voices… this damned cold fog that makes you sleepy and makes your bones ache. We’re not to go to the fog… it’s not the way.”

“The way to what? Who told you?”

“Dunno. As for who told me… think it was my mum, actually. Sounded like her – a bit. Faint though… faint as the rest of them. ‘Freddie,’ she’s been saying. ‘Come here,’ only I don’t know where here is, so I can’t exactly follow.”

Morse found the conversation unsettling. He felt gooseflesh rise on his arms and shuddered.

“That sounds terrible,” he confessed. Thursday shrugged.

“Could be worse.”

He reached for his pipe and had it up to his lips before hesitating.

“For the love of – I’m out of matches.”

Morse gaped at him.

“You actually use them up? I thought they were just… extensions of the apparition.”

“Well, they aren’t extended now. Damn. I’d give my eyeteeth for a smoke.”

Morse considered this, and was struck by an outlandish idea.

“What if you try one of mine?” he asked. He produced a match and held it up for Thursday to see.

“Think of it… think of it being like you. Maybe it’ll work?”

The ghost looked doubtful, but went along with it. As he focused, Morse became aware that the matchstick was becoming less tangible. All at once, it was gone – the wood, that is. The flame floated, unattached, in the stale office air.

“Why would _this_ happen?” Thursday exploded, glaring at the useless stick in irritation. Morse let his head sink down onto the surface of his desk as his shoulders shook with badly suppressed laughter.

“Sorry,” he exclaimed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “Only I have no idea, myself… and your _face,_ sir.”

Thursday shook his head but chuckled in spite of himself. He leaned in to blow out the flame – a habit from his life that he hadn’t yet confronted in death. Morse leaned in as well, knowing mortal lips were needed to put the fire out, and it was only as both men blew that Morse felt an icy chill on his mouth, and Thursday recoiled in embarrassment. He floundered, trying to think of a funny reply and failing. Morse was equally challenged.

“I… er… that is –” the older man struggled. Morse shook his head.

“It’s fine – I have to… I have to go. Sorry. I’ll… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s your day off.”

“Right. Right. Sorry… later then.”

Morse gathered his things and left in a rush. His lips still felt cold and strangely numb. He shuddered, not entirely from horror.

His mouth tingled for the rest of the miserable night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if there are typos - it's 1:30 AM and i'm exhausted as usual

* * *

“Do you mind if I…?”

“Sir?”

Morse sat in the otherwise empty office, lit cigarette smoldering, held loosely by his bony fingers. Thursday flickered in agitation, hovering over his desk.

“Just – I’m dying for a smoke.”

The irony-rich turn of phrase made both men shake their heads. Morse furrowed his brow.

“What do you propose?”

“Could you… let me get close? I can smell it, see. Feel its heat. God, this is madness – d’you know, I spent a full two hours knocking tobacco out of my pipe. It just reappears! Endless supply, I’ve got, and not a single bloody flame to light it with!”

Thursday had not been taking well to life – well, afterlife – without his vice of choice. With only Morse to talk to, and his mood souring as the days passed, he’d become more and more erratic during their visitations. This pleading, it seemed, marked the beginning of a new phase.

“Alright.”

As the words left Morse’s lips, the young man shuddered. Thursday had sped around behind him with inhuman quickness, his presence sending a cold chill racing down the mortal’s spine. He had the presence of mind to exhale, smoke clouding the air around them both, distorting at the fizzling edges of Thursday’s spectral form.

“Ah…”

The low rumble made something twitch in Morse’s abdomen and his knees knocked together involuntarily. He pointedly ignored it, or tried to. Sometimes proximity did that to him – made him misfire, react a bit when he didn’t mean to. A consequence of his aloof nature, he supposed. If he had to guess.

“Blimey, that’s good.”

Oh, hell. His thighs tensed with discomfort. Thursday’s nose was practically pressed into the nape of his neck, freezing and strange. He shifted in his chair and suddenly the bite of cold turned into something else entirely.

For a horrifying moment, Morse feared he’d suddenly been paralysed. Everything from his jaw downwards was prickling and numb, as though it had fallen asleep. He made to struggle, disturbed and wanting to distance himself from the feeling, but his arms and legs would not respond more than to twitch a bit. They felt heavy – moved slowly. Simultaneously, his mind raced fast – too fast. Thought after thought fired past, reduced to simple flashes – not all of which he understood. Realization knocked the wind out of him; the memories and impulses _weren’t all his._ He tried to speak, voice catching in his throat twice before he croaked out a desperate

‘No –!”

The feeling of unnatural violation vanished as quickly as it had come. Morse collapsed in his chair, sweat beading on his skin, now frightfully pale. His throat worked to moisten itself as he stubbed out his cigarette and hugged himself, shivering violently.

Thursday, for his part, had zoomed into the farthest corner of the room, and looked just as horrified. He flickered wildly, eyes owlish with the kind of instinctual fear more reminiscent of a wild animal than a man.

“What just –”

“You were i-in me _–_ in my _head!”_ Morse hissed, skin crawling at the idea. The invasion of privacy made him sway, feeling as though he might be sick.

“I’m sorry – I don’t know how I… what I did to…”

“You leaned in,” Morse interrupted. “Oh, God.”

He scrambled for the nearest waste basket, vomit spurting out from his mouth, violent and unexpected.

“Surely it can’t be as simple as that.”

“Why can’t it? There’s no rule book – we have no idea –”

Morse trailed off with a groan and buried his face in his hands.

“I am sorry.”

Thursday floated closer, slumped, his feet trailing slightly against the floor. A coolness spread gently over the back of Morse’s hands, around his wrists.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said softly. “I won’t do that again. It was an accident, but all the same…”

Morse nodded and gradually, his heaves subsided. He sat back and Thursday offered him an intangible handkerchief out of habit, falling silent, embarrassed at the gesture the moment he did it. Morse retrieved his own handkerchief and wiped his lips clean.

“Do you want to see your family?”

The question came out of nowhere and caught Thursday by surprise.

“Of course – but I can’t get beyond the bounds of this office. Stuck where I snuffed it, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but… I can.”

Morse’s eyes gleamed with new fire as an idea began to take shape.

“Suppose you get inside my body again – with warning this time. If I knew it was coming, I could prepare for it – psychologically. Maybe we could outfox the laws of whatever it is keeps you trapped here.”

Thursday wavered, edges firming up as hope swelled in his chest.

“Do you really think that’ll work?”

“I haven’t found anything in any books to say otherwise. Not that there’s much to go on at all, really.”

“But it was bad for you – you were sick –”

“Only because I wasn’t prepared for it!” the young man insisted stubbornly.

“I don’t want you risking yourself on my account –”

“I want to. If it’ll help you to… to go on. To wherever you’re supposed to go. The hereafter. Heaven, or…”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Thursday said dryly. Morse’s ears burned.

“I only meant – well, you know more about where you’re going than I do, given the circumstances.”

“I know – I was only winding you up.”

The deceased detective’s eyes softened and a look of honest gratitude came over his face.

“We’ll practice it, then,” he said. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well. Thanks are in order, then. You’ll be doing me a good turn – I’ll remember that. Put in a good word for you with the man upstairs, soon as I get the chance.”

His grin was so eager, so infectious, that it pushed aside any lingering doubts.

The possession, strange and frightening though it was, would go ahead.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the awkwardness of sharing a body with a separate consciousness, pub food, teetotaler!Morse, and a foray into the horrifying purgatorial place where Thursday spends some of his ghost time...

* * *

“Right, small steps first.”

It was still dizzying, hearing his own voice without actually speaking, himself. Morse’s consciousness, pushed aside, was somewhat wary of the other man’s presence, now controlling his body. His anxiety must’ve come through the tenuous link between them, as Thursday immediately ceased his efforts to walk to the door and back, sinking against the wall and giving Morse room to repossess his legs and hold them both up.

“Why did you stop?” he asked aloud, brow knitting. “We were making progress.”

_Didn’t want to scare you._

“You weren’t _scaring_ me. It just feels strange. Don’t give up now – I’m going to pull back. If you don’t fill the void, I’ll wind up on the floor.”

With that Morse, willed himself to think of distance, of a widening gap between mind and body. He began to slide down the wall, but in an instant, he was upright again, Thursday in control.

“Just to that desk, there, and back. If you’re in distress –”

_Just do it, sir._

The first steps were helpless, shuffling things, but gradually, the rhythm of walking returned to the spectral detective. Granted, walking as Morse was different than walking as himself, but the older man adapted more quickly than he’d expected, without injuring his host in the process. He was a bit wobbly when he tried to move arms and legs simultaneously, but still, it was a start.

As practice improved, bit by bit, day by day, Thursday was increasingly eager to get outside. He had no idea if he could feel the sun on his (well, Morse’s) skin, breezes, that sort of thing, but even if all he could do was see something different, it would be a blessing after so long trapped in at the station.

Truth be told, as obliging as the young man had been, Thursday wasn’t sure if he’d honour their original agreement. The DI couldn’t blame him, really – God knows, he’d feel right funny letting another person walk around in him like some kind of suit. As such, he didn’t broach it, and it was Morse who suggested, unexpectedly, that they try going for a brief stroll.

A stroll turned into a walk to the nearest pub for a pint and a pot pie, which Thursday was overjoyed to learn he could taste. He couldn’t help groaning in pleasure as he swallowed mouthful after delicious mouthful, much to Morse’s chagrin.

_Must you be so… vocal, sir?_

“You would be too, if you could taste this.”

_I am tasting it. A stringy chicken pie, and an unpleasant beverage._

“Make it sound good, why don’t you?” Thursday muttered under his breath, not wanting to make the boy look like a madman, talking to himself.

_I don’t drink, by the way._

“Might’ve said something earlier.”

Thursday felt a sort of wry amusement come through from the displaced consciousness of the young policeman, and he smirked down at his meal. There was something pleasant about the ease with which he could engage with the boy in banter. If he’d have to be stuck sharing a body with anyone, it helped that his host had, at least, a quick wit and a capacity for humour.

Thursday finished the pie, barely restraining himself enough to keep from licking the plate clean. He hesitated just long enough to get a rise out of Morse, chuckling at the protest that came loudly through their shared mentality.

As the old detective walked his meat-suit back to the station, he felt a pang in his abdomen and paused, blindsided by the half-forgotten biological sensation. Morse’s mind squirmed uncomfortably next to his, a sensation rather like rolling a handful of cold offal through your fingers, but taking place, primarily, behind Morse’s left ear. Thursday twitched, shaking his head in discomfort.

“Stop that.”

_Sorry._

He didn’t sound it.

_I don’t want you in control. Not now._

“Fine by me.”

Thursday eased his mind over, letting the other’s consciousness fill the void. No sooner had he settled than he felt disappointment radiating at him.

“You’re still here,” Morse observed, frowning.

_Where else would I be? I can’t leave when I’m not in the office._

The young man was walking at a brisk pace, now, irritation apparent.

“Well, I wish you weren’t,” he snapped. “I don’t want you feeling –”

_That you can’t hold your beer?_

Morse pointedly ignored both the comment and the public lavatory they approached a short time later, though the momentary flash of need that stabbed through both of them made Thursday consider it.

_Just go in, lad. This is absurd._

“I’m not doing… that with you tagging along.”

_Suit yourself. I’m not the one who’ll embarrass himself if things go badly._

Morse faltered, tapping his foot. Stealing a glance, another pull of longing made him doubt his better judgement.

“Don’t say a word,” he muttered, cheeks burning as he turned off the sidewalk.

_Wouldn’t dream of it._

Thursday meant to keep silent, too, but after an awkward five minutes spent hovering in the back of the boy’s head as Morse failed to make any progress, he voiced a thought.

_Never would’ve taken you for the shy type._

Morse glared defiantly at the urinal in front of him.

_Try not to think about it. Just get the job done._

“You’re not helping!”

_Been through worse indignities than this in the service. You adjust to it._

“So help me, I will push you out of my mind, no matter where it sends you.”

_Right, no need to get your dander up –_

“Sir. STOP. TALKING.”

A moment of tense silence, followed by a very faint, mentally mumbled

_If you don’t mind spending an afternoon stuck like this, far be it from me to stop you._

Just to be vindictive, Thursday sent a little stab of urgency through their mental link – partly to see if he could – and by some stroke of cosmic cruelty, that’s what finally did it.

To say the walk the rest of the way to the station was miserable would be an understatement. Morse was tense, and his mind was a dark mixture of shame and anguish that worried Thursday, a bit. His concern must’ve come through, because it was Morse who finally broke the silence.

“You felt that, then.”

_… More or less._

“Wonderful.”

What more could either of them say? Thursday doubted there was any easy way to account for being present in another man’s body at a time like that.

_It wasn’t exactly a picnic for me, and all._

“Oh, I know!” Morse snapped, earning him a strange look from a passerby. He lowered his voice immediately. “No doubt you think I’m a fool, now.”

_Why would I think that? Christ, Morse, we should’ve expected as much or worse, messing around with possession like this._

Morse’s response was non-verbal, but the heady combination of self-loathing and despair was easy enough to understand.

_I don’t think less of you, you know._

Not knowing what else to do, Thursday sent another direct sensation through their link – this one being one of comfort. Morse stumbled from the shock of it, righting himself in time to keep from tripping over the step as he walked back to the door to the station. One of the night staff spotted him and nodded.

“Forgot my scarf,” Morse explained, and waited until he was in the privacy of the empty office, standing by his desk, before relaxing enough to let Thursday pass out of his body. He sank, exhausted, into his chair, eyeing the spectre that materialized a couple of feet away.

“Are you alright?” Thursday asked, and the mortal shrugged.

“I… think I will be…”

“But?”

“I need a break from this. Just… a week. I need a week. Then we can try again.”

Thursday flickered wildly, but held his tongue. The boy had given him enough – more than he had any right to expect. He could grant him seven days, surely.

Morse left him, shutting off the light, plunging the room into darkness. Thursday floated through the wall into what had once been his office. The desk, at least, was familiar, and he sank into the wood with a sigh, dissolving into invisible nothingness. His mind, though, his mind could never achieve such blissful quietude.

Seven days – he couldn’t sustain physicality for that long. Even as he fought to focus on the wood of his desk, the stale smell of dust, the acrid notes of Hamilton-Warrens’s inferior tobacco, the forest took shape around him. Monochromatic and horrible, chilling him through. A terrible wind howled through him, tearing holes in his spectral form.

“Freddie… Freddie…”

The voice was the worst. Whether or not it was his Mum, or some sinister imitation, Thursday didn’t know, and frankly didn’t care. It was nightmarish regardless. He could outrun it here, for a day or two, a weekend, a bank holiday, maybe, but a whole week?

A twig snapped near him in the swirling mist, and he was off, flying through the trees, legless, rent apart by branches, reforming instantly, stinging and gliding fast, too fast to see where he was going. There was no destination in this place, no refuge. There was only the chase, and the fear.


End file.
